June 3rd 1888
by softcorecurls
Summary: A Watson X Holmes short story. Rated M for explicit future chapters!
1. Chapter 1

I don't own Sherlock Holmes, or anything affiliated with the series. I was inspired by the close relationship between Watson and Holmes in the books and screen adaptations. This story is told from the point of view of Watson. There will be explicit sex later on, so be prepared!

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It was seven years ago that we found each other. I had just returned from the war, still shaken and battered, and was living in a shabby little hotel while my funds quickly withered away. I needed a place to stay and a medical practice to join. A mutual acquaintance introduced us, since we shared a common need for a room. I jumped at the chance.

I remember he had just made some discovery to do with criminology, and was practically basking in his own glory. We met in a university laboratory in a cluttered old basement room. Back then, his dark hair was longer, and even less well-kempt, and his flushed cheeks were hairless, with merely a soft fuzz around his upper lip and jaw line.

These days, it's all I can do to buy him new razors and leave them sitting conveniently beside the sink as silent encouragement to follow basic grooming etiquette. He was tall, though not as tall as I, but his exceedingly lean body seemed to stretch past its proportions.

He shook my hand with a surprising strength and his eyes lit up like little wicks, burning manically in their sockets. The smile that touched the corners of his lips reminded me of a housecat cornering a field mouse, and his mannerisms were somehow delicate and precise. The way he touched his hat to me, put his pipe to his mouth, drew the bow across the strings of his violin or gave a cursory yet calculating glance.

Though later I found many of his actions to be reckless and arrogant, his movements retained an almost feminine touch that inspired in me a certain amount of affection. And those hands…it was difficult not to stare when they were at work picking a lock, playing his violin or conducting a particular experiment. The long bone-white fingers, even when stained by various chemicals, moved like gentle birds and with more grace than any woman I had ever met.

We hadn't been living together long before I understood what his profession truly was, and it wasn't long before he had me working cases with him, as an assistant of sorts. I was his secretary, messenger, test subject, lookout, bodyguard, errand boy. And although I opened a practice down the street, it always seemed he was my primary patient.

Whether an acid spill, a fist fight, an experiment gone wrong or some clumsy needlework while injecting himself with god-knows-what, he was in and out of my office often. I suspect that for many of these minor injuries, he could easily have dealt with them himself, but he would always say that if he stopped coming to me with his every ailment, I would cease to have any business.

He was always an eccentric man, and living with him has never been easy. Sometimes he would slip me something in my drink to see how the human body would take to a new compound he had created, go days without speaking or eating, or dirty a new pair of trousers of mine in order to disguise himself as a beggar. His room was a mess of wrinkled documents and oddities which, although I could not see any semblance of organization in it, he could find the smallest slip of paper at a moment's notice in.

In recent months, I met a woman named Mary Morstan. She was sweet and young and full of life, and I had made up my mind to marry her and settle down before I got too old to do so. I had decided that I was too old to be running around solving mysteries and needed to focus on my medical practice.

I was going to buy a ring and begin looking for another place to live, but I needed to tell Holmes first. And it wasn't going to be pleasant.

"May I come in?"

"Hmm? …ah, Watson, is that you?" I opened the door and a cloud of smoke enveloped me. Holmes sat smoking his pipe by the fire with his eyes closed and didn't even turn to look as I entered. I knew that, somehow, he already knew what I was going to tell him. I could see it in his slightly furrowed brow—he knew, even though I hadn't told a soul or even spoken to him about her, he knew.

He didn't have to ask who it was. He recognized the cadence of my footsteps and the squeal of my leather shoes against the floorboards and the light swish of my tailored pant legs. He knew all of my habits and could easily pick out the back of my bowler-ed head from a distant crowd. Standing behind his chair, I took a deep breath and crossed my arms like a shield across my chest.

"I'm getting married."

Sherlock didn't bat an eye.

"To Mary Morstan," I continued.

He didn't even turn around, just puffed calmly on his pipe as if he was not a part of the conversation. When he finally opened his eyes, they were bloodshot.

"You're engaged," he said, blowing smoke into the air as he leaned his head back. "Did you propose without a ring?"

"Well, no. I mean, I haven't proposed yet, but I've set a date." Of course he knew I didn't have a ring yet. He knew everything about my comings and goings.

"She'll say yes." As he stood up, I noticed he looked as if he hadn't slept in days. His smile looked painful and the words sounded rehearsed as he said, "Congratulations, old boy," and shook my hand with a stiff grip. "A toast, shall we? To the married life."

He pulled out a crystal decanter someone had given him in return for reuniting them with their son or something like that and poured us each a drink. "To my dearest Watson! May he find peace and happiness in the arms of a wonderful woman!" His toast fell like a knife fight on my ears in all its thinly-cloaked sarcasm. He downed his drink and poured himself another in a flash. "To take the edge off the first one," he said grimly as he gulped down the second drink.

We sat down in front of the fire as he took out his pipe again.

"456 Brown Street," Holmes muttered under his breath as if saying something offensive to his palette.

"What? What's on Brown Street?"

"A lovely little apartment just a few blocks away from your practice."

"Something happen there?"

"It's empty." His sideways glance stung my face. Those burning eyes burrowed under my skin. "You're looking for a newlywed's nest, aren't you?"

The voice that came out was dry and cracked, and his posture was especially rigid and strained. It was as if he was struggling to keep something within him leashed, and it worried me to see him so uncollected. He must be drunk, or else he's been using again, I thought, quickly assessing whether or not I should search his room for the substance.

"I'll be sure to take a look at it on my way home from work one day this week," I said, slowly sipping my drink and surveying the room for any telltale signs of his condition. I had made it quite clear on many occasions how I disapproved of his drug usage, but on this matter, my medical opinion meant little to him.

Still unsatisfied, I gave up searching and decided I would merely stay close by in case he needed me instead of heckling him today. He was in a foul enough mood already, no need to exaggerate his condition further. I finished my drink and moved towards the door to retire to my own room where I could easily hear his activity without having to fend off his fiery gaze.

"Oh, and Holmes…" He poured himself another drink, gripping the glass so tight I thought it might shatter in his lovely white hands. "Don't tell anyone about this. I want it to be a surprise." With that, I closed his door behind me, leaving him to his thoughts.

It was a solid three weeks before he spoke to me again. He kept to his private quarters mostly, sometimes playing his violin in that terrible discordant fashion he goes for when in a rut, sometimes making no noise for hours. During the day, I would ask Mrs. Hudson to check in on him every hour, and at night I would shove my sette against the wall separating our rooms and sleep with my ear pressed towards a crack.

Between babysitting Holmes and my office hours, I bought a lovely engagement ring. Nothing flashy, but substantial enough to please the soon-to-be wife of a modest doctor. I set a proposal date and made plans with Mary for an evening in the near future.

And perhaps I should have spent more time with my potential fiancé instead of worrying about my partner. It wasn't unknown for Holmes to go a few days without speaking to anyone, and often times after concluding a case, he would retreat into his room in a bad mood. But this felt different. And when he finally spoke to me again, sitting down at the breakfast table one morning without a glance in my direction, he was colder, distant.

No good morning, no eager over-my-head babble, no sarcastic comment about my striped pajamas. And my name fell from his lips like lead as he simply said, "Watson, cancel your afternoon appointments, if you have any. I need you to accompany me to Fulton Estate today."

Folding the paper underneath my arm, I rose from the table and said, nonchalantly as possible, as if my nerves weren't frayed from weeks of worry, as if I weren't hanging on his every icy word, as if I hadn't noticed the new scar tissue forming in the crook of his arm and nothing at all was wrong: "I'll refer them to Doctor Reynolds for today. When will we be leaving?"

It wouldn't have mattered if I'd had an appointment with the Queen of England herself that afternoon. Holmes was speaking again, and it was a surprisingly soothing sound despite the bite in it. I arranged for a carriage to take us the six hour ride to Fulton Estate, hoping that Holmes had made accommodations for us somewhere nearby. It wasn't odd for us to beg a bed from whoever's service we were at as our cases sometimes took us miles away from our home. Luckily, I had long ago put my pride aside when dealing with Holmes's rather haphazard methods.

The ride to Fulton estate was rough. Not only was the terrain uneven and rocky, but Holmes retreated into a corner and stared out the window the whole six hours without a word to me. When we arrived to an ancient, ivy-crawled, crumbling French-styled chateau, I wished that Holmes could have at least had the decency to explain to me what we were doing there.

He paid off the carriage driver and we picked our way across an untended garden to the front gate. I used my cane to break the rusted chain and Holmes led the way to a side door in a knowing, secretive manner. As he jostled the doorknob and let us into the dusty corridor, I cleared my throat to get his attention.

Finally, he looked at me, brows furrowed in annoyance. "Yes, Watson?"

"Before I go running around in some drafty, possibly dangerous, old house, would you mind telling me what we're doing here?" A cobweb caught in my moustache as I ducked beneath a low ceiling beam, following Holmes further into the darkness.

My eyes were adjusting well enough to see the odd expression on my companion's face. One I recognized as a precursor to many, many…memorable situations, to say the least.

"Just a routine case of jewel theft, Watson. All you need to know is that I have reason to believe that the thief uses this chateau as his base of operations. And I brought you along in case things were to get…out of hand." He was weaving in and out of vision, and I stubbed my toe on several side tables trying to keep up.

This wasn't anything new. While working a case, his answers and explanations were often veiled and elusive like a child refusing to tell his parents what he wished for on his birthday because it might spoil it. Once set in stone, Sherlock would get positively giddy in weaving for me the minutest of details that led to his revelation of the truth. A few times, I thought he would burst into song and dance he was so excited to share his infallible genius with me.

When we came to a stop, we seemed to be in a library or study. Holmes poked around a bit as I attempted to find a lamp or candle to light somewhere. I struck a wooden match against my boot to have a look, heard Holmes stomp rather hard on the floorboards, and suddenly there was the sound of breaking wood and the support fell out from under me. Fumbling for something to grab, I found only Holmes' coat, and we crashed down into the darkness together.

... ... ...


	2. Chapter 2

I must have hit my head on something, because I don't remember hitting the ground. When I came to, Holmes was hovering over me, illuminated by moonlight that was coming through the debris we had caused. The floor was mostly gone, along with part of the library wall, and it seemed we were in some kind of cellar.

"Ah, good, you're awake. It appears we have fallen into the Fulton Estate wine cellar. And, unfortunately, it appears Mr. Fulton was strictly a connoisseur of French wines." With a moonlit look of disdain, Sherlock held out his hand for me and helped me up.

"How long was I out?" I rubbed what felt like a knot on my head and picked bits of dried blood from my hair. Stretching out my limbs, I seemed mostly intact. To answer my own question, I checked my breast pocket for my watch. Oddly enough, it wasn't there. I always kept it secured on a metal clasp inside the pocket, but the clasp was broken and the watch was gone.

"Just a few hours. I monitored your breathing to make sure you weren't comatose." He was now strutting back and forth between rows of wine racks, stopping here and there to examine a certain bottle.

"And why didn't you just wake me instead?"

"Best sleep you've had in weeks, and you wanted me to rouse you? It's difficult to sleep while you're spying on your best friend, so I thought you could use the rest." He said it nonchalantly as he lifted a bottle from the rack and looked it over. "Ah-ha! An Italian red! Do you happen to have a knife on you Watson?"

"This is no time for popping bottles, Holmes! We need to find an exit." Holmes seemed strangely happy about the whole situation as I handed him my knife. I was glad we were on speaking terms again, but waking up after a hard fall in an abandoned wine cellar was not the ideal place for a reunion.

"I've already scoured the area and there are no viable exits. Luckily, I arranged for just such an accident. The carriage driver is to return here tomorrow morning and will alert the police when we do not arrive as scheduled. Then Lestrade will toddle down to the Fulton Estate with the whole Scotland Yard at his heels and get credit for saving the illustrious Sherlock Holmes. So aside from Lestrade getting a big head, there really isn't anything to worry about, Watson. I brought some provisions, and we have a ready arsenal of wine at our disposal."

With this speech, he used the knife to pull out the cork on the bottle he was holding, successfully spraying me with the red liquid and taking a heavy swig.

I sat down on a barrel and sighed my disapproval at the stains on my clothing. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Holmes handed me the bottle. I had to admit, I was glad to see him so jovial after weeks of glumness, even if we were stuck indefinitely in a dusty wine cellar.

But as I put my mouth to the bottle, I remembered something: Tomorrow night was June 3rd, the night I was supposed to propose to Mary!

And here I was, trapped in a wine cellar, drinking with the very man who didn't want me to get married. With Holmes, there are no coincidences. There are only well-laid, perfectly played out plans. Surely he wouldn't sink so low…

Without alerting Holmes to my suspicions, I stood up and walked over to where we had fallen through the floor. The edges of the boards above weren't very jagged or deteriorated…in fact, they looked as though someone had roughly sawed halfway through them and stopped. I felt for the metal clasp in my breast pocket. It had been cut with a knife, not broken naturally.

I took a long, hard drink and handed back the significantly drained bottle to a smug-looking Holmes. We sat together on a bench he found, quietly passing the bottle between us as the moon moved slowly overhead. I knew he didn't want me to move out, but to go to such great lengths to sabotage my engagement to Mary? To keep me here purposefully without any knowledge of time? To distract me with wine? What was Holmes playing at?

As a doctor, I have never been a big drinker, and Holmes could always hold his alcohol better than me. Perhaps that was why he chose to pursue stronger drugs every once in a while, as much as I disapproved. After our third shared bottle, my tongue was loose, and my thoughts began flowing from my mouth.

"Sherlock." I was glad it was dark so that he couldn't see my cheeks flush. "Why go through all this trouble? This whole charade might buy you a week or two, at most. But in the end, it won't change anything. So why? The lies, the cellar, the wine? What will all of this _possibly _accomplish?" By the end, I had jumped to my feet drunkenly, waving my hands about like a madman. My partner didn't flinch at my accusations, remaining stoic as he finished off the wine.

"Well? What does the Great Detective have to say for himself?" I couldn't leave it alone, although I knew that I should have. The words continued to roll from my tongue like stones, falling heavy between us. "Why would you try to sabotage my engagement this way? Are you completely insane, or just that selfish?"

He was silent for a moment, bent over and leaning his forearms on his legs so that I couldn't see his face. Then, without moving, I heard him say, "Turn around, Doctor. You won't like where this path leads." The message was cryptic, foreboding…how like Holmes. But I didn't heed his words…how very unlike me.

Instead, I became belligerent, demanding, persistent. I stood in front of him, arms crossed with a self-righteous air, and said, "Turn back, Sherlock? We're trapped in a bloody cellar together. What did you think would happen? Did you hope to change my mind about Mary through trickery? Through one night of drinking? As if I wouldn't find out that you engineered this entire fiasco. You've gone daft, detective."

As I spoke, I prodded him, pushing him around, drunk and angry. If I had only known what he was hiding, I might have quieted down. He gave me one last warning then: "John, leave it alone. I am at my limit." His knuckles were white in the moonlight as they gripped his trousers in tight fists. I had never seen those lovely hands so full of self-control.

"No, Holmes. I am tired of your games. Just tell me: why am I here?"

It was then that the wind was knocked like fire from my lungs as he charged me, throwing me to the ground. The cloud of dust and dirt settled to reveal his face close to mine, his body pinning my larger body, his breath in my ear. If I hadn't been so drunk, I would have been able to break free from his hold, but in my current state I was no match for him: he knew all of my weak points. He knew everything about me.

His whisper was like tiny tongues of fire licking at my ear. "Daft, eh? My dearest doctor, you are the thick one. Seven years, and you never once caught on."

I was indignant in my drunken state, and struggled feebly to push him off. He didn't budge, his eyes searching my face in that frantic motion I had grown so fond of. 'Fond' was not the word I was thinking of now, however, as his forearm pressed down on my neck. "Get off of me!"

"Seven years, and you never once noticed the way I watch you over the morning paper, or how we always have sunny-side up eggs for breakfast, just like you like. What about the watch I gave you, the only heirloom from my father? All of those bullets I've taken for you, the way I come to your clinic even when I am well, or perhaps how I always leave my door cracked at night, hoping you'll catch the hint. Did you ever stop to think that it was strange? That I was strange?"

"I don't want to fight you, Holmes. Let me up." As if I was in any position to argue or make threats, as if I hadn't heard his obvious plea for my attention. I didn't want to listen.

"Fight or don't fight me, it doesn't much matter. I can endure this no longer." With that, he leapt off of me, grabbed some rope from the floor and tied my wrists together in a proficient knot before I could even catch my breath. Without warning, he grabbed me by my collar, dragged me into the moonlight, and tied the end of my bonds to the beam above my head. The beam was supporting my drunken weight as I struggled to free myself. He was far too fast for my wine-impaired reflexes—I was at his mercy.

"Blast it, Holmes! Untie me this instant!"

Like a hawk, he circled around me, scratching his chin in thought. "No…no, I don't think I will."

I made a violent move to kick him and ended up losing my footing, my body swinging back and forth unsteadily from the beam. "I swear, the next time you come limping into my office, I am putting you out on the street—I don't care if you're choking on your own blood." We both knew that I was bluffing. I would have put the dying Pope out on the street before letting an injured Holmes out of my sight.

Instead of responding to my threat, he stopped his pacing in front of me and stood to look me in the eyes, feet shoulder-width apart and hands clasped behind his back like a soldier. All at once, I was back in the army, a man susceptible to the whims and wishes of his commanders. I didn't like re-living that feeling of helplessness. "You still want to know why you're here, John?"

His serious tone sobered me, and I realized that I was not so much angry as frightened. The great detective was a force to be reckoned with, only I could never have imagined being on the receiving end of his devious genius.

"This isn't funny, Sherlock. Release me now, and we can forget all of this." The rope was beginning to rub my wrists raw, but I saw no sympathy in Sherlock's eyes as he took my jaw roughly in his hand. There seemed nothing feminine or delicate about those hands now, and I tried to look away, but he held my face so that we were only inches apart.

"I don't think you understand the position you are in, doctor. So allow me to illuminate the situation for you." I braced myself for a punch, but nothing could have prepared me for the crash of his lips against mine.

Our stubble mingled roughly as he devoured my lips, forcing his tongue into my mouth as I fought to get away. My cries of defiance were muffled by his further explorations, his teeth biting my lips, his tongue wrestling mine into submission. I could taste the blood in my mouth, but whether it was his or mine I did not know.

His hands were in my hair, holding my neck in place while he kissed me. I was relieved when he retreated from my mouth, but he quickly moved down my neck, biting and sucking painfully, desperately, as if stopping meant I would escape him somehow. With my voice freed, I began crying out for him to stop, but it seemed like my words only urged him onward.

"Stop it, Holmes! Get off of me!" He finally pulled back, his eyes dark with a lust I had never seen there before. He loosened his collar and threw off his coat. I could feel my cheeks redden as he looked me up and down like a predator deciding which cut of meat to eat first. I felt confused and betrayed by the man I called my closest friend. "Why…I don't understand…" I hated the way my voice choked over those words. I was the one who always took care of him—to appear weak in front of him was almost more than I could bear.

Holmes was breathing heavily, the anger apparent in his stony face. "It didn't have to happen this way, Watson. I originally only intended to dissuade you from marrying Mary tonight. I won't lose you to some second-hand trollop."

The rage flew from me with a kick, but he dodged it. "Don't you _ever_ talk about Mary like that!"

He ignored my outburst and continued, staring deep into my eyes as if to mesmerize me. "It's your fault it has come to this, John. I would have been content to continue watching you from afar. But a man's restraint can only stretch so far, and I have been pushed past my breaking point."

With one hand, he ripped my vest and shirt open and the buttons went flying, scattering across the floor. My shirt hung open to reveal my naked torso, white in the moonlight. "I want you, Watson. And if I have to defile you to the point that no woman ever wants to touch you again, then I will."

Then, those hands I had watched for so many years were sweeping aside the torn clothing, running up and down my chest as he came in for another kiss. It was fiercer this time, hardened. His nails were leaving bloody trails on my back and chest, the liquid gleaming as it ran in tiny rivulets down my body. I was terrified of how far Sherlock would take this. Surely he didn't intend to go any further…but beneath the fear, something else was growing, something that I denied with my whole being.

He stepped back to quickly remove his own shirt and vest, never taking his eyes off of me. I was gasping for air, head spinning round and round. "Please, Holmes…stop this now…it's…unnatural."

My captor ignored my pleas and bent down, biting and pinching my nipples with such reckless abandon that I had to bite my tongue to choke back my cries. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of hearing me yelp like a helpless pup. He bent down farther and removed my shoes and socks, caressing my feet as he did so. I tried another kick, but he caught my leg and gripped it tight enough to bruise—a warning not to try it again.

I told myself to stay strong, but then I felt his hands move up my legs, fondling my buttocks through my trousers, squeezing and massaging each cheek forcefully as he watched my face contort in an attempt to keep quiet. My face burned red as I felt myself grow harder. "You're holding back, John. But are they cries of embarrassment…or sighs of pleasure?"

I let out a shameful whimper as he began abruptly unbuttoning my pants, pushing them down my legs and yanking them over my feet so that I was naked except for my underwear. When he hooked his thumbs into the sides of my last remaining scrap of dignity, I looked into his eyes and begged him not to do it. "Don't Sherlock…it's too humiliating. If you don't stop now, I'll…" I didn't know how to end that sentence. I would what? Hate him? Lose all sense of my own manhood? Or was I scared to find out why my cock was throbbing from another man's touch?

A genuine sadness flashed across his face for a moment, but it was quickly replaced with a gritty determination. "I'm sorry, but I can't turn back now." With a swift, decisive motion, he pulled off my underwear and let the material fall at my feet. I turned my face to the side, my eyes squeezed tightly shut. I couldn't stand to look at him, knowing that my member was fully erect by now, but my further humiliation only fueled the fire more.

There was silence for a moment, and I didn't dare open my eyes. "Watson…" I heard the hitch in his breath as Holmes said my name, heard the struggle to compose himself in his voice as he spoke. "You are more beautiful than I imagined…" I just hung there, too scared to move, as I heard him circle around me, his boot steps slow and deliberate.

He pressed his half-naked body against me, his face cradled in my neck, one hand on my chest and the other dipping lower. I couldn't hold back a gasp as his hand gripped my quickly thickening member and began stroking it up and down. "How does it feel, doctor?" I didn't bother to answer. He gradually increased the pace, the pressure within me building as his breath heated my neck.

My eyes shot open in surprise when I felt him drop to his knees and take my heated cockhead into his warm, wet mouth. I saw his head bob up and down on my length, taking it to the hilt, and my body started to shake. He was watching my face, distorted with pleasure as my climax neared. His tongue slithered along my shaft, and I didn't want to enjoy it, but my hips were moving involuntarily, thrusting into his mouth now. I hissed his name as the final shiver ran down my spine, my body convulsing, going limp against my bonds. "Sherlock…"

I was numb, barely breathing, struggling to support myself against the ropes. Holmes stood up, licking his lips lewdly. "What a lovely face you make, John. To finally taste you…my wildest dreams pale in comparison. But we aren't done here—not yet."


	3. Chapter 3

There wasn't time to compose myself as he moved behind me and ducked quickly out of sight. I may not have been experienced, but I wasn't naïve—I thought I knew what was coming next. I braced myself, expecting to buckle over in pain any moment, but once again the detective surprised me as I felt his lips trace a toxic trail down my backside.

As he made his way down, he kicked out my legs and spread them apart one at a time, steadying me as well. With what little energy I had left, I tried to move them back together, but the repeated sting of his open palm against my rear and my lingering orgasm was enough to make me compliant. "Stay still—I want a good look at you."

Crouched down behind me, he took a cheek firmly in each hand, the pads of his fingers digging into me, and held me open as though I were on display. For what seemed like a terrifying eternity, we stayed like that: me, eyes shut tight and pretending I was somewhere else, and him just _looking_. When I felt him rustle behind me, it was almost a relief. Until I felt the warm little dart of his tongue at my entrance.

I suppressed a yelp and clenched the rope tighter as he lapped at my hole, bathing it in his wetness, readying me for whatever would come next. I bit my lip, tasting more blood as his tongue slithered into my tight channel. To my horror, the wriggling appendage snaked further and further into my hole with every thrust, causing my spent member to re-awaken. This did not escape Holmes' notice as he pulled away to give it a few light strokes.

"You're trembling, Watson." From exhaustion and disgust, I told myself. But I knew that my body had already betrayed me and that it was pointless to fight it. Holmes stood up and kissed my face, gently, almost lovingly. Then, his eyes held mine, the gleam in them just like when we first met—except that, this time, I was the field mouse. And I knew that there was no escaping him.

He well knew what he was doing: once he was done with me, I would be forever marked. I could never face Mary or any woman again, not with this guilt on my conscience, not with my manhood taken from me. There was no time to wonder what my debasement would mean for my future as Holmes told me to 'Say Ahhh' and stuck his fingers into my mouth.

"Get them nice and wet for me, doctor. But I warn you, bite me and you will deeply regret it." I did as he said, coating his fingers in saliva in the hopes that it would ease my pain. "Don't worry—we'll go one at a time."

He pulled his fingers from my mouth, shiny and dripping, and stepped closer to me, one arm wrapping around my backside to hold me open and the other finding my entrance. The pad of his slick finger pushed lightly at my hole, persistent and threatening. "Take a deep breath and try to relax your muscles."

With a slow, cautious movement, a single finger pushed into me, continuing its burning assault until it was all the way in. "Ahh, see now, that's not so bad," he said as his lips brushed mine, feathery and light, singeing my skin.

I barely contained the grunt of pain, turning my head to the side so Holmes wouldn't see me wince. For a moment, he was still, letting me adjust to the new intrusion. The pain dulled, and he began to pull his finger in and out, the friction heating up my insides.

"Let's aim a little deeper, shall we?" I felt a second finger force its way into me, sliding roughly alongside the first. I could no longer suppress the sounds of pain as he scissored them inside of me, stretching my tight hole past its limits. Then, it seemed that the angle changed, and suddenly the lights went off in my brain like a lightning strike—for a moment, I was gone, replaced by an instrument of pure bodily bliss.

I had no thoughts or cognitive abilities, no voice or movement of my own. Without my permission, my body pulsed, heated, hardened. Again and again, he prodded and fingered the light switch inside of me, causing flares of demonic pleasure to spread through my body like a wildfire.

"Looks like I found your weak spot, Watson. How does it feel to be penetrated by another man? To be undone, strand by strand, in the eyes of someone else? I want to watch you lose yourself to me completely."

And I was well on my way there. Soon, my cockhead was shining with pre-cum, my body aching for another release. Between moans, I heard Holmes whisper, "That's three…" and then, "Let's try one more…"

At this point, I was holding back tears. The pain I had expected, but the pleasure…I had no defense against it. My sphincter throbbed madly with every thrust and my insides trembled as my only friend forced his fingers inside of me repeatedly. Just as I thought I could take no more, he gently pulled them out, kissed my panting lips, and moved behind me. His arms wound around me tight, and his voice sounded almost soothing in the dark.

"I cannot hold back any longer, John." It was as though the seven years of wanting had all spilled over into those seven little words. Trying to steady his breathing, I could hear him hastily unbuttoning and pushing aside fabric. I could feel his hands shake from self-control as he prepared to finally take me.

"You don't have to do this, Sherlock." I could barely hear my own voice as it slipped through my quivering lips. But I knew it was too late to turn back. Whether he finished what he started or not, nothing would ever be the same after this.

"I will be your undoing, doctor. Just as you have been mine."


	4. Chapter 4

"I will be your undoing, doctor. Just as you have been mine."

Being his physician, I knew his length and girth well, and I also knew that taking something of that size inside of me would not be easy. Not once had I questioned why he always had an erection during my examinations. Not once had I wondered why he needed them so frequently. But now I understood: it was the only way he could feel my touch.

The spit-slickened skin of his cockhead rested against my entrance for a few moments before he began pushing into me. I hissed through gritted teeth as he worked the head into my hole, the slow, intense burning increasing as he opened me up.

I let out a growl of anger at the pain, and Holmes, through heavy breaths, said, "stop fighting me, you're making it worse. Relax and let me in."

"I…can't…"

My whole body was rigid and tense from the intrusion, but my length seemed to get even harder. Sweat dripped from my furrowed brow and my hands gripped their restraints so tightly it hurt. I could barely breathe as he pushed farther and farther into me, forcing his way forward. I felt as through a spike was being driven through my body, splitting me in half. Finally, he was still.

"It's all the way in now, so just relax." Sherlock was pushing the hair from my forehead and stroking my body in calming movements as his member twitched inside of me, needing to move. "You're doing fine, John," he said as though I were a child being rewarded for staying still while the doctor gives a vaccination.

"It…hurts. Don't move…" But his length began pushing in and out in tiny strokes, the friction like striking a match inside of me, until he was pulling almost all of the way out before forcing himself back in. He was hitting that light switch with his sex again, causing my eyelids to resume their fireworks display, and slowly, slowly, the pleasure overtook the pain, surpassed it without suppressing it. The pain remained but was hidden behind the blinding jolts of electric perfection that exploded through my body on every upward thrust.

It was like listening to a train traveling through a long tunnel—the sound echoing in the darkness, drawing nearer and nearer, the headlight becoming visible, then blinding, the sound moving from faint to thunderous until all you can hear, see and smell is the train as it emerges.

Holmes drove in faster, harder, his hissing and panting and gasping fueling my fires even more until orgasm was inevitable. My own mewls of pleasure and grunts of pain joined his sounds without shame now, a cacophony of desire. Shame, regret, betrayal: all meant nothing in the face of that indisputable pleasure.

When I thought that I could take no more, he reached around and took hold of my erect member, pumping it in time with his thrusts. I could barely hear his whispered order as I lost myself to the orgasm that wracked my body: "That's right John, come for me…"

My climax was forced from me, painful and consuming. It seemed to last a lifetime. Finally, my body went limp against Holmes, completely spent and empty of thought or emotion. I didn't even fight him when, seconds later, he gave one last hard thrust and came inside of me, teeth digging into my shoulder, hands clawing at my hips, my name escaping his lips in a flow of swear words. If I hadn't been suspended, I would likely have collapsed in the moonlit dust of the cellar and slept for days. All I could hear was heavy breathing.

I barely noticed when he pulled out of me and popped open another bottle of wine. He took a swig and stood in front of me, shirt untucked and trousers hanging from his hips. Surveying me like livestock, Holmes ran those lithe, strong hands over my body and I did nothing to resist. I could feel his come leaking out of me, dripping down my legs, not letting me forget for a moment what I had become.

He stepped forward and nuzzled his unshaven cheeks into my neck, lips painting a stream of kisses along my jawline. "I swear, Watson…you will be the death of me." As if I was _his _weakness, _his_ downfall. All the while, here I was, weak from his touch, suffering defeat at the hands of this man. I could say nothing.

It was clear that I had no more fight left in me, and so Sherlock took a knife from his coat pocket and cut me free from my bonds, letting me fall to my knees before him. His form loomed over me and he lifted my chin up roughly to face him. "Does it hurt, doctor?" There was pain and a strange sort of sincerity in his eyes, and his unfaltering gaze coaxed me to answer him in a weak voice.

"Yes…it hurts." What I didn't tell him was how right it had felt, how the pain had rippled into waves of pleasure and overwhelmed me entirely.

"Let me play doctor then," he said in all seriousness. He pulled several tablets from a pillbox in his pocket and took hold of my chin again, pulling my lips open with his thumb. I tried to turn my head away, not knowing what the pills might contain, but he gripped my jaw firmly in his hand and dropped the pills down my throat. He then tipped my head back and held the wine bottle to my mouth, pouring the warm liquid down my throat and forcing the pills down as I choked and sputtered, the wine leaking down my body in rivulets.

"Drink up, John." I gagged, but Holmes held my jaw so tightly I thought it might come unhinged. I struggled to relax my throat muscles and let the wine slide into me. He emptied half the contents of the bottle down my throat before letting me up for air.

Gasping for breath and dripping wet, I had to ask.

"…Holmes, what have you done?"

I was broken, crying at his feet like a child. I could not believe that this was the same man I had known for years, taking in my conquered form like a glass of wine—savoring the sight, swishing it around in his mouth to taste the different notes. The aroma of my defeat seemed to delight him. I should have been disgusted. I should have reviled him. I should have been, above all, horrified at the turn of events. "Should" is the key word there.

"Just a muscle relaxer and some pain pills I had the apothecary make especially for you. I think you'll like the effects they have on the male anatomy…" A smirk crept up his face in a most devious fashion, leaving me to assume the worst.

"You wouldn't…" I had thought that my humiliation was over. That I would be allowed to suffer in private once the deed was done. I couldn't have been more wrong. Holmes let go of me and I scurried away from him, already beginning to feel my body tingle from the medicine. I thought of Mary, of the marriage that would never happen. Not now, not after this. One last time, I pleaded with him. "Please…you got what you wanted, now end this. I can't take anymore…"

"Don't worry, Watson, that's what the pills are for. Soon, you'll be begging me for more. And we've got all night, maybe longer. You know how incompetent the police are." His eyes sparkled with the prospect. "Until then, you are all mine."


	5. Chapter 5

… … …

It wasn't long before the drugs began to make their presence known. Holmes waited for their effects to kick in, silently watching my breathing turn heavy, my cheeks flush with wine. The blood flow to my cock increased tremendously, making my head spin slightly as I struggled to stand. But I would not lay down like some beaten dog.

I could do nothing to hide my growing erection as I wore only my torn white shirt which still hung open, but my remaining pride held Sherlock's eyes. My legs trembled weakly beneath me, but I stood my ground as he moved closer, his lust threatening to break free with every step.

"I know how fond you are of gambling, doctor," Holmes brushed aside the hanging fabric of my shirt. "Let's say you and I make a little wager, hm? You win, and I won't lay another finger on you."

I knew Sherlock—he never placed a bet on something he wasn't sure he could win. Whatever the game, I could be sure he had the upper hand. But as I felt my heartbeat speed up and my legs shake with the effort to stand, I knew that I had no choice. Whether I played his game or not, he would get what he wanted in the end.

"And if I lose…?" I gulped, but my cockhead was dripping from the thought of what he might do to me if I lost.

Sherlock's arm shot out and he gripped my balls painfully. "Then you have to surrender everything to me," he growled, a sound that sent a visible tremor through my body.

I told myself that it was the drug-induced haze that had me wanting to play Sherlock's twisted game, that wanted to lose, if only a little. "What are the rules?"

Holmes looked pleased with himself as he rustled my hair in praise like a pet. "Simple. Just do as I say and don't ask me to release you until I'm done."

I was confused by his meaning at first, but then he pulled a red satin ribbon from his coat on the ground and tied it in a tight bow around the base of my cock. The resulting image was humiliating, with me looking like some present under the tree at Christmas. I knew then what he meant by 'release.'

The game was designed to get me to beg for it. And I _wanted_ to play.

"Are you ready?" I could practically see the tip of his tail twitch back and forth in anticipation as the housecat prepared to pounce. Against the railing cries of my better judgment, I nodded in consent.

"Against the wall, Watson." I backed into the dusty cellar wall and Sherlock clicked his tongue at me with disapproval. "Back to me, hands above your head." I scrambled into position and he kicked my legs out farther, spreading me open. "Now stick out your ass for me…there's a good lad."

I saw the moon-cast shadow of his raised hand as he whispered in my ear: "Count it, John."

Before the words sank in, I felt the first sting as he struck my cheek with his open palm. I cried out, but no numbers were intelligible. He swung again, hitting the exact same spot but with more force. "Giving up on our bet so soon? I expected more from you." He pelted my ass with a few more strokes before I began my count.

Sherlock struck with the precision of a surgeon and the force of a bludgeon. I could barely choke out the numbers in between my sounds of pain. The stinging of my backside did nothing to hinder the erection between my legs.

We were up to forty-seven before I begged for him to stop. The supposed pain pills were doing nothing to ease my suffering, and the pain only served to increase my arousal.

"Stop? Why would I do that, when your cock is getting harder with every blow?" As if to demonstrate, he swatted roughly at my hanging cock, and laughed as it bobbed heavily below me. "I know what you want, John. Fight it all you like, but a man can't escape his nature. You like to be dominated. Such a good, strong soldier—you've been begrudgingly taking orders from me since we met." He leaned forward to emphasize his last words: "You may squeal like a piglet Watson, but you come to slaughter all the same."

I felt too weak to respond to this latest insult. And what could I say, standing on my own two feet, willingly submitting to his ministrations? True, I had no means of escape and was drunk and drugged, but if I loathed his touch so much, why wasn't I fighting anymore?

Sherlock gave me a few more swipes and then pulled away from me. My cock throbbed painfully and my balls ached for another release. But like a good soldier, I held my position and awaited my orders.

"You've done well, Watson." Looking behind me, I saw him pull a bottle from his satchel. He poured the liquid into his hands, rubbing them together when he sat down the bottle. "Let me reward you."

I felt the cold liquid drip down my lower back and down my cheeks and his skilled hands began massaging the ointment into the welts blooming there. I wondered if there was any real medical value to this treatment, but the salve felt so soothing, I didn't dare voice my concerns.

His strong fingers pressed into my skin, knowing just where to go and what to do to make my member stiffen and swell to its full potential. The mirrored movements of his hands sent tremors through me and the drug was in full swing—I moaned shamelessly, tossing my head from side to side like a frustrated stallion. A coated finger prodded my entrance, tracing tiny circles around it with the now-tingling liquid.

"Tell me how you're feeling, doctor. Has the drug taken effect yet?"

I couldn't lie, not with his hands working on me like that. "Yes. I can…I can feel it."

"Good, good. Now imagine how I would feel inside of you. Warm, hard. Filling you up." My muscles clenched as the words became images in my mind. No, no that's not what I want…that's not… "Imagine I'm moving inside of you, heating you up from within, hitting your sweet spot with every thrust…" No, don't think about it, don't give in to him… "Tell me what you want, Watson, and I'll give it to you."

Only a strangled moan fell from my lips as an answer. Sherlock tutted at me, once again grabbing something I could not see. "Can't admit it yet, eh? That's fine. I can see you are thirsty, old boy. Would you like another drink?" I shook my head to signal 'no,' but soon felt the cold circle of the lip of a wine bottle against my skin.


End file.
